Married Sex (4 page)

Chapter 7

For eighteen years, we rarely went out on Saturday night. Friends might come over. Or Ann would have a sleepover, and we'd have half a dozen girls chattering in the next room till all hours. Or, in recent years, Ann and her boyfriend of the season would join us for dinner before they went out to wherever it is that kids go.

But with Ann off to college, we were starting fresh. We had to. Our married friends were our age, but they seemed a generation younger. They'd waited until thirty to marry, thirty-five to have kids; when we were taking Ann on the college tour, they were sweating acceptance to kindergarten.

And now, at forty-six, we were empty nesters. Impossible to accept. Just the two of us? For decades and decades? How crazy was that?

But okay. Change, the law of life. Saturday now meant sushi in the neighborhood followed by a movie.

Blair had gone to snag seats, so I was the one in the popcorn line. Just ahead of me was a woman in her early thirties. It was a warm night, and she was wearing a sleeveless blouse with no sweater, tight black jeans, and black boots.

Standing behind her, I couldn't help but notice that her bra was too tight; in back of the armholes, it forced tabs of flesh into public view. Worse, it announced that there was no one in her life who saw her from behind before she went out.

The line was moving slowly. There were twenty people ahead of us. She wasn't checking her phone. On weekends, I never do. So it was boredom or chat.

“This is like being in a bank line,” I said.

“I wouldn't know. I'm unemployed.”

“Oh. Who did you used to be?”

“HR for an investment bank—the first to go. You?”

“Lawyer.”

“Wall Street?”

“Matrimonial. What are you seeing?”

“The vampire movie.”

“Aren't you a little old for that?”

“My friends said that. So I'm here by myself.”

We were moving steadily along, almost at the front of the line.

“I don't get it,” I said. “What's the attraction of having a guy suck your blood?”

“It's not the blood. It's the neck.”

A clerk called out: “Next.”

“Women also like to have their necks
licked
,” she said, and she gave me a fifty-watt smile as she walked away.

How do you read an encounter like that?

As a New York moment: two people, a brisk exchange, happens all the time, on to the next.

Or—and the thought sent my pulse redlining—this unemployed woman who used to work in HR at an investment bank was alone and up for anything on a warm Saturday night in mid-September.

Chapter 8

I don't remember his name, and I doubt his book outlived him, but I sometimes think of a man who's been dead for more than a century. He was French. Titled. Rich in a time when that meant going out four nights a week. It took him only minutes to put on a dinner jacket; his wife required an hour to dress. Rather than seethe, he decided to write a novel while he waited for her to appear. In less than a year, he'd finished it.

My situation is just the reverse.
After
a night out, I'm waiting for my wife to undress. To wash the day away. And then put on an outfit only I'll see.

I'm quick—I shower between the drops, Blair says—so I go first.

Then, while Blair disappears, I have tasks.

I have performed them two or three nights a week—for years.

They never get old.

Pour two shots of tequila or single malt and two glasses of water. Roll a thin joint. Light a candle. Choose music that can take us elsewhere.

Sometimes I hear Blair singing. Saturday night she was silent. Until, through the bathroom door, she announced what she'd been thinking about.

“That line in the movie—do you think that's true?”

“Which one?” I asked, though I knew the line she meant.

The door opened. Blair was wearing a thick white terry­cloth robe. And spiked heels. I hoped for a short conversation­.

She quoted: “Making love to your wife is like striking out the pitcher.”

“You were offended?”

“You weren't?”

“Right after he said that, she slugged him—and the audience laughed.”

“First they laughed at his line,” she said.

“But she got the last laugh.”

I handed Blair a shot glass. She drained it and then took the second glass—my glass—and knocked it back.

“Something for him, something for her,” she pointed out. “They had it every which way.”

“It worked,” I said. “We're talking about it now. And you know …” I lit the joint and handed it to her. “It's not exactly our problem.”

There are so many ways to start. Fingers resting on a pulsing vein on the wrist. A whisper, a warm breath in the ear. A hand between the legs, gently cupping.

Or the direct approach. Like Blair loosening her robe, revealing a black thong and a low-cut black bra that made her breasts look wonderfully swollen.

The thong. Is it not the greatest advance in fashion since the miniskirt? Never fails to delight. It banishes all other fantasies. It commands: This is where you'll focus.

A strong man could resist a thong. I am not that man.

A thong does not necessarily lead to hot, dirty frenzy, but for Blair and me, it often does: grabbing, squeezing, probing, shrieks and shouts, spontaneous tears, ecstatic merging, a climax that feels as if it's accompanied by a two-by-four to the back of the neck and a vacuuming of every cell in the body, leaving us cleansed and revived in the few seconds before we fall asleep like truckers.

Or it's the opposite: a slow-motion meditation on a square inch, a single sensation, a frozen gesture, time slowing, an almost imperceptibly spreading heat, a silent explosion, and a gentle emptying, like the tide rushing out.

So it was on Saturday night. Or so it was for Blair on Saturday night. This wasn't sex for her; it was making love—smooth and flowing and life enhancing. And why not? Her daughter was off at an elite college. Her husband was satisfied by his work, committed to his family, faithful to his wife. On her desk were sharpened pencils, in her closet new skirts, in her heart a hope for better that marked the start of every school year for her. No country home, no offshore accounts, no Manolos, but good sheets on the bed, wholesome food in the cupboard, an orderly household, a cool breeze from the park—in an unsteady, corrupt world, this was happiness of a high order.

I felt all that and responded to it, but the woman in the refreshment line at the movies had unsettled me—I couldn't keep my focus on Blair.

I thought of women from my distant past, women I cherished when sex was new and I thought that women were my real teachers and my education was best conducted in bed. The long lost girlfriend with lovely, full breasts, breasts so big she could hold them up and lick her nipples. The college girl, a friend of a friend, who stayed with me for a few days when I was in law school and who came into the kitchen one morning as I was brewing coffee, opened her towel, and made me late for class. The articles editor of the law review, who showed up with a peacock feather, and the visitor from Toronto who liked it standing on the roof at midnight when it was just starting to snow and the city was silent.

In between, my head flashed images of Blair, but not the Blair who was in bed with me. Blair half-naked at midnight in the service elevator of a cheap Paris hotel, Blair in the backseat of a rented car, Blair whispering about doing it with a man whose face she never sees. Hot images, heart-stopping memories.

Then I thought of a more recent Blair: Blair at forty. For that birthday, she let me make a video of her. Just her, naked, in the bedroom—she put on a show. When it was over and she lay quivering, I turned the camera off and gave it to her. She put it away. I've never seen it since. She may have destroyed it.

It was a total surprise when I conjured Jean Coin, in an unbuttoned white shirt, her jeans falling to her ankles, eyes wide open, lips moistened, hands reaching toward me, and I did that thing I can honestly say I've never done before—I had my orgasm thinking of a woman who was not my wife.

Chapter 9

On Monday, I called Jean Coin.

I didn't think I would, but I did.

Blair and I had discussed this moment—what to do when someone's tempted to stray—and we'd developed an adultery killer, a solution so simple there could be no possibility of confusion.

This wasn't a theoretical, what-if conversation.

There was some history.

Two years into our marriage, with our daughter still in diapers, I had an affair. I wasn't overwhelmed by young fatherhood or turned off by a lactating wife. I had a “deeper” rationale—I felt it was crucial not to commit completely to any relationship; I thought it was soul-saving to keep a sliver of me for me. And, inevitably, I met a young, newly married lawyer at a conference who felt the same way. Hours after we met, we were having incendiary, bounce-off-the-walls sex.

I got caught because I was a fool. My lover and I collected the small bars of gourmet soap you get in better hotels. To use that soap at home produced a secret smile in the morning. And to see that soap next to the grocery-store brand that Blair used gave me a sense of abundance.

Yes, I was quite the sophisticate.

In a matter of months, Blair figured out something was going on. Holy hell followed and weeks of no sex, a punishment that punished us both. Then something surprising: a fresh idea, reality-based, looking a lot more like wisdom than the dull affirmations you find in the how-to-be-married guides.

What I proposed was this: If you're tempted to stray—if you find yourself moving beyond an innocent flirt—you've got to stop and tell that person: “I have a partner who is the dearest person in the world to me. Cheating may be okay for others, but it's not okay for me, not okay for us. So I can't do this alone.”
And then ask: “May I bring you home?”

Our theory—Blair immediately saw the logic, so I considered it
our
theory—is that any couple is a group of two. So is an affair. It's just a different person who's on the outside. But if you expand the circle, nobody's left out. An infatuation that might have become marriage threatening is reduced to … an episode. A couple can then grow old together without hypocrisy or deception.

But here I was, considering a solo hookup with Jean Coin once a week for five or six weeks, a complete violation of my understanding with Blair. Not a misdemeanor—a felony.

Why was I about to do it?

When you're justifying yourself, you always have answers:

I've been so good for so long, I'm owed.

My wife knows me, every last corner; I know her, in every possible way; we're bonded. And while that's thrilling, it's also diminishing—I've become nothing more than half of a couple.

I've been feeling a pressure that needs relief, a pressure my wife can't tap. I wear sunglasses even on cloudy days so I can check out the breasts of women walking my way. I follow any woman with an attractive ass, just to watch. If I don't do something to relieve the pressure, I'll start locking my office door, watching porn on my computer, and …

I'm not as hot for my partner as I used to be. I crave someone new. And I just happen to know who …

Those reasons are all the same reason, which is the punch line of this joke: Two guys walk into a restaurant. At a table, alone, clearly waiting for someone, is the most beautiful woman in the world. One of the men says, “Somewhere there's a guy who's sick of fucking her.”

I wasn't sick of Blair. I didn't crave a new thrill. I didn't feel that years of fidelity entitled me to a no-fault affair. I had success in my work and stability in my home and, most of all, I loved Blair even more than I did on our wedding day—I envied my own life.

So why get involved with Jean Coin?

I told myself that Jean was a dream lover—a nomad in her work, a hermit in New York. A walking secret and almost certain to remain that way. Somewhere inside, there was a lonely, vulnerable person, but a short-term lover would never have to meet her. The boundaries of the relationship were the four corners of a bed. Once a week. For six weeks. Then gone, and good-bye. As I say, a dream.

This isn't an explanation, and, looking back, I can't re-create one. The best I can do: Something was wrong with me. I couldn't name it. I didn't want to think about it. But instead of doing nothing, instead of letting my distress pass, I took a step forward.

She answered on the first ring, as if she knew I'd call, and soon.

“Second thoughts, counselor?”

I was a high school debater, a sometime actor in college, and a star of moot court in law school. But when I opened my mouth, I might as well have been fourteen.

“As a matter of fact …” I said, then went silent.

“Would this be easier in person?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

Without irony: “Our place?”

I looked at my calendar.

“Give me an hour.”

The afternoon shadows darkened the green of the park and brightened the sparkle of the boat pond. The walks were pebbled with horse chestnuts. Thanksgiving seemed like next week. I felt an irrational urgency.

Jean was just back from some beach. Her hair was lighter and her tan deeper; her perfume was sunscreen. Today she was beautiful in the way of an athlete. Her health and vitality were like a force field.

“I hated how it ended last time,” she said. “Whatever happens between us, I'm glad we're seeing each other.”

Generous. And why not? Last week she was the one with her hand out. Today I was—well, I was the suitor, wasn't I? I mean, I was the one who called.

“This is beyond awkward,” I said.

“Why?”

“I know how this is done. I've read books, my clients tell me stories. And … obviously … but …”

“Let's walk,” she said. She reached for my arm, hesitated. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

On any other day, I would have said no. It isn't. Because anyone encountering us with Jean's hand resting on my arm as we walked deeper into the park would have thought: What a nice couple.

And if anyone who encountered us happened to know me, the next thought would have been: That's no couple; that's David and his lover.

But I didn't care.

“I'm pleased about this,” Jean said.

“You've done this before,” I said. “So enlighten me. Is it really this … clinical? Is it just about sex?”

Jean laughed. “You're complaining?”

Rueful me. “I know it sounds like I just got off the bus from the farm. But—”

“Don't worry,” Jean said. “We'll find some affection.”

“Let's seal this,” I said. “Kiss me.”

Jean turned to me. “All yours,” she said.

“For six weeks.”

“Shhh,” she said, and pressed her lips to mine.

The only woman I'd kissed on the mouth since Bill Clinton was president was my wife, so I stood apart from Jean, not moving closer, connected to her only by the kiss. It felt weird, kissing and yet not holding each other, but she allowed it. Then she rested a hand on my cheek, and I was lost.

I pulled her close and kissed harder. Her heart was beating almost frighteningly fast. She slipped a hand inside my suit jacket, clutching the back of my shirt, and thrust a leg between mine, as if daring me to rub myself to orgasm against her.

Strangeness. The feeling that I wasn't quite in my body, that I was an onlooker, and it was all interesting but also random, as if I might choose to change a channel and watch something else. Not that there was anything more compelling.

And then a sudden dizziness, a burst of brain scatter and spinning, leaves and clouds and sky rushing at me. I pulled back, reached out for something solid, found nothing, and grabbed Jean by both shoulders.

I heard a distant voice: “David?”

Head down. Slow, deep breaths. Like a diver, coming slowly to the surface, I felt bubbles in my head, rising and bursting, leaving a blessed silence behind. Clarity slowly regained.

Jean, visibly concerned: “Okay?”

“Let's sit.”

The bench was painted dark green, with a brass plaque, shiny, of recent vintage. Jean's white shirt gleamed. The day was saturated with color. Beauty everywhere.

“Sorry if I scared you.”

“This has happened before?”

“No.”

“I've never thought to ask someone to take a physical before we went to bed.”

“Well, that was a lightning bolt of a kiss,” I said.

“In both directions.” A girlish smile. “Again?”

I rested my hands on Jean's arms. She thought we were about to kiss and closed her eyes. But I was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. I registered her intelligence, her independence, her self-awareness, her appetite for experience, and, far from least, her beauty.

Nothing I saw told me to turn back.

Then I flashed on Blair. At home. A domestic scene, a nothing moment: taking coffee cups out of the dishwasher and putting them away. In her head was something like peace.

It's been so long since I've done this, it's entirely possible I'd suck at it. Shower before leaving Jean's loft, arrive home with wet hair. Turn curt and moody. Announce the affair without announcing it. Wreck everything.

Jean, unkissed and confused, opened her eyes.

“I could tell you a story—but I'll cut to the end.”

I paused. I'd never said these words before. I couldn't quite believe I was about to say them now. “I can't have an affair with you. I can take you home.”

“Home … to your wife?”

“Yes.”

“A threesome?”

I made an attempt at humor. “Call it a ménage à trois.”

Wicked smile. “Once a week, for six weeks?”

“Once. Just once.”

“Isn't a threesome just a twosome with one person watching?”

“For some people.”

“But not you,” she said.

“I wouldn't know.”

Jean was amused. “You've read a book, seen a movie …”

“I've had clients try it,” I said.

“To ‘save the marriage,' yes?”

“Yes.”

“And they're all divorced now, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“But you're suggesting it anyway.”

“Not because it's my preference.”

“Why not? Isn't the threesome every man's favorite fantasy?”

“So they say.”

“Incredibly appealing, isn't it? Big tits. Shaved pussies. And after, an ice cream sundae with whipped cream and a cherry.”

“It wouldn't be like that,” I said. “We're not like that.”

“What are ‘we' like?”

“We're …” I wanted just the right word, but one was way too few. “We're … okay.”

“How hot is ‘okay'?”

“Not for me to say.”

A curator's look of appraisal. The briefest thought.

“Okay,” she said. “Take me home.”